


whether she loves me or loves me not

by Maculategiraffe



Series: it won't be a stylish marriage [6]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, I hesitate to actually tag it noncon, M/M, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Semi-Public Sex, Slavery, but like, humans as chattel to nonhumans, love and romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-22 16:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17665982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maculategiraffe/pseuds/Maculategiraffe
Summary: oops i did it again





	1. Chapter 1

John's shift ends at six, and when he gets out into the parking lot, there's a woman leaning on the chain link fence by his car. She's wearing jeans and a Pink Floyd T-shirt, with scuffed hiking boots, and her hair's up in a sloppy ponytail. 

He doesn't even recognize her until she smiles at him, her playful smile. Her brunch smile.

"Do I look inconspicuous?" she asks, and straightens up. "If anyone asks, I'm your feckless cousin from out of town who didn't bother to let you know she was arriving. I walked from the bus station. Give me a hug."

She actually holds out her arms, and he steps forward, bedazed but obedient, and-- hugs her. 

"It's pretty convincing," he says, when she lets go and steps back. "Your feckless cousin getup. Except the, uh, diction."

"Oh, well," she says. "I didn't wanna freak you out."

"Oh, shit," he says involuntarily-- that's _unnerving_ \-- and she grins at him, puts her hand on the passenger's side handle of his car, says, "Drive me home."

He unlocks the car, and she gets in. Having her in the passenger's seat adds to the general weirdness. She's never had him drive her anywhere before.

 _"Dark Side of the Moon?"_ he asks, starting the car, nodding at her T-shirt.

"'Games and daisy chains and laughs,'" she says, and reaches for the car's CD player. "What are you listening to these days, John?"

It's Josh Ritter's Animal Years in the CD player, and she listens for a few seconds--

 _I don't know how they found me, I'll never know quite how, I still can't believe they heard me, I was howling out that loud_ \--

\--and then cuts it off again.

"I've been invited to a party," she says, without further preamble, as John drives. Towards her house, the little one with the flowers, here in town; he assumes that's what she meant by _drive me home_. "A small gathering. Four others like me, plus their humans. It's a, a bring-your-human party."

He nods, taking that in. "And-- you want to take me?"

"I'm considering it," she says. "I've already declined a number of invitations involving you, since that dinner party. I haven't felt inclined to share you, or to risk upsetting your-- emotional equilibrium."

He isn't sure how he feels about that, actually. It's nice of her to want to spare him, but it's not like he's some delicate blossom she needs to coddle. He's already been the entree at a party for several of her friends, and he did fine. 

(It's like how Harold's insisted on giving him a _safeword,_ of all things. Harold doesn't even like to _hurt_ him. It's like being given a sat phone after you're already safely back at the barracks, and told to be very careful to keep it with you at all times, just in case.)

Luckily, she seems to find this thought adorable, rather than ungrateful. 

"It isn't that I don't think you can take it, John," she says. "But I know you're aware that your state of mind has an effect on your-- flavor, as it were. I've preferred to maintain control over your environment. And then, when I decided to experiment with allowing you more freedom, I preferred not to complicate the experiment any further than necessary."

It's a little unnerving to hear her describe his life as an _experiment._

"If it's any consolation," says Daisy, "it's going _very_ well."

That _is_ a consolation, actually, especially considering how badly he fucked up his first several attempts at normal human life. Of course, it probably helps that this time he's got Daisy looking out for him behind the scenes, annihilating his leftover mortal enemies for him.

"Exactly," she says, grinning at him. "And not spiriting you away to unexpected parties with-- things like me."

"But you are now," he points out, feeling more relaxed. She's in a good mood. Cheerful, joky. 

"I'm still not spiriting you away," she says. "I'm inviting you. You may say no."

"But you want me to go, right?" he asks. She must, or she wouldn't have bothered to track him down to ask him about it.

"It's no great hardship to track you down," she says, smiling. "Perhaps I just wanted an excuse to show you my new look."

He smiles back. She does seem to enjoy these little forays she makes into public spaces. Playing human.

"I decided to give you the option, because I thought you _might_ find it interesting," she says. "A bit of a foray into _my_ world. Since it's a party designed to accommodate humans, everyone-- the ones like me, that is-- will be well turned out. You won't experience any discomfort at their appearances. And you bear my mark, so no one will-- interfere with you, without my permission."

It does sound kind of interesting, actually. But he's not sure that's a good thing. He's been really enjoying the dull life, lately. In between visits to Poppy's haunted gothic mansion to check on Kara, of course.

"Oh, and Kara will be there," Daisy adds. "At the party. Poppy's bringing her."

He jumps. "Isn't that a little-- soon?"

"Kara's doing very well," Daisy says. "Thanks in large part to you. Poppy's anxious to show her off."

She's taken him back to see Kara twice, since that first time. On the second visit, Daisy let him feed Poppy again, but on the third one it wasn't necessary. Kara _is_ doing well-- gaining weight and muscle tone back, wearing clothes, negotiating with Poppy for what she needs, for herself and her focus. But still.

Maybe he _should_ go to the party, just to keep an eye on Kara. Look out for her, see if he can run interference if it's needed. 

He should anyway, right? Daisy's being incredibly generous, to even allow him to consider otherwise. He doubts very much that any of the other humans whose owners have been invited to this party are being given a choice of whether to attend.

"True but irrelevant," says Daisy. "I may be making a new fashion statement, but I promise I haven't suddenly become shy about letting you know what I require of you. If we don't go to the party, I'll have you all to myself that evening. Not exactly a hardship for me."

She actually winks at him.

He's pulling up outside her house now, and feeling slightly panicked. He still doesn't know what to say. He puts the car in park, opens his mouth, closes it.

She leans over and kisses him, not on the mouth but on the cheek.

"The party is in three days," she says. "Let me know what you decide."

She gets out, almost skips up the walk to her house. John watches her inside before he drives away.

 

......................

 

Finch says, "It's bad enough having you-- fed on-- by 'Daisy.' And 'Poppy.' But a _party?_ For what possible reason would you subject yourself to such a thing?"

He's sitting in his ergonomic computer chair, but turned away from the display to focus on John, who's sitting at his feet, looking up. His favorite place. Well, one of them.

"I mean," says John. "Aren't you glad I went, when she gave me a choice, before? To Poppy's house, that first time? If I hadn't-- because it might be hard-- and it _was_ hard-- but it was _good,_ it's good that I went. Right?"

"You went because you were explicitly being offered the opportunity to _help_ someone," says Harold. "This is a _party_."

"You know, Finch," says John, grinning-- he can't help it-- at the vitriol in Harold's voice on the innocent word, "some people actually _like_ parties."

"You know what I mean," says Harold irritably. "What possible good can come of your attending such an event as some sort of-- accessory, I suppose, at best. And at worst, some sort of-- plaything."

"Probably more like an hors d'oeuvre," John says. 

Finch won't smile. He takes off his glasses and starts cleaning them, which is what he does instead of getting up and storming around the room, gesticulating.

John says, "It's not like I won't be _safe_ , Harold."

Harold's quiet for a bit, meticulously polishing his glasses.

John says, a little haltingly, trying to explain, to himself too, "And if I don't go-- the party, whatever goes on there, it'll still be happening anyway, just without me there. The only difference if I don't go is, _I_ won't be there."

Finch puts his glasses back on, and looks at John, intently, like he's trying to decode him.

John says, "And if I do-- and there _is_ any good I can do-- for Kara, or anybody else there-- I mean, I don't know if there will be or not. But if I don't go, then-- there definitely won't be."

Finch puts his hand out, and strokes John's hair, and is quiet, for what seems like a long time.

Then he says, "I'm concerned that 'Daisy' may have-- possibly inadvertently-- trained you to believe that the more difficult alternative is always the correct one. Simply because it's more difficult."

Oh, well, that's...

...huh.

John says, after another quiet minute, "Do you think I might need therapy?"

It's a joke, but Finch still won't smile. 

"It bears thinking about," he says. "But to the matter more immediately at hand."

John looks up at him. At Harold Finch. His home, his saving grace, the light of his life, brighter than any he could ever have imagined. His focus. He'd like to spend a lifetime, just looking. If he could have other lifetimes, to make himself useful.

He says, "I don't want you to worry. If you tell me not to go, I won't. I'll tell her no."

Finch leans down, cups John's face with a palm, gazes at him. John holds still.

Finch says, "I don't want to-- forbid you. But I feel as though-- if I don't-- I'm sending you off into--"

He stops.

"What?" says John. "Mortal peril? You used to send me off into that all the time."

Harold says, "That was before--"

Yeah, that was before.

Harold used to be pretty good about using John properly, aiming him at danger like a laser-guided missile, his skill and strength, and his damage too, the chill at his center, the place where he'd been so cold for so long that, like the boy in the fairy tale who set out to learn what fear was, he forgot how to shiver. Went still.

Now he's warm at the center, and bright, with purpose, and it's Harold who's afraid. Not primarily that John will die, maybe-- he shouldn't be, anyway, John fully plans on outliving Finch, maybe by as much as a couple of weeks, if Finch has any particularly complicated last requests-- but that John will be hurt. As if that matters.

John says, "Anyway, this isn't mortal peril. Think of it as the summer court prom."

"Is that how you see her?" Harold asks, curiously, scrutinizing John. "A-- fairy?"

John says, "I think they prefer 'the good folk under the hill,' actually."

Harold shakes his head. "I don't know how you can joke about this."

"I'm not, really," says John, "I don't know what they call themselves, but if it walks like a duck and steals humans away into magical servitude like a duck, you know?"

That, finally, makes Harold laugh. He shakes his head again, takes his glasses off to wipe his eyes, puts them back on. 

Says, "All right. Let's discuss terms."

...............

 

In bed that night, curled against Finch, he texts her, fingers slightly cold-- not _let's discuss terms,_ of course, but:

_would it be ok if i ask a couple more questions about the party_

She answers, quickly, _Certainly. What are your questions?_

John types, _will there be any part where you arent with me. i know i have your mark but i would still rather not be around other people like you with you not there if i have a choice_

She answers, _I understand. If we go, I'll keep you close._

The other thing he and Finch agreed to ask is-- harder. To ask.

Daisy's given him the option to tap out before, though, the time he volunteered-- begged, pleaded, prayed-- to take Harold's punishment, and she put a pebble in his hand, said, _If you need this to stop, let go_. 

(Finch still has that pebble; it's sitting on the dresser, here in the bedroom. He's never said anything about it, why he keeps it, even now, and out in plain view like that, as if it's decorative. John hasn't asked.)

He types, _since this is voluntary. if i say yes to the party in general am i allowed to say no to particular things there. if its more or harder than i thought._

There's a pause before she answers this time.

"Breathe," Finch orders, and John realizes he's not. He tries to obey, but his lungs don't expand like they should. Why did he ask, why didn't he just say yes, or say no, thank you, thank you for saying I could say no, why take a risk like this, be so goddamn demanding--

_Yes. I trust you not to abuse the privilege._

He exhales, shaky, draws in a deep breath. Rereads what she wrote, double-checking that it wasn't _I trust you won't abuse the privilege,_ which he'd tend to parse as a warning. _I trust you not to_ feels, instead, like praise.

He shows Finch the screen of his phone.

"Well," says Finch. "That's something."

John nods. Breathes some more, grounding himself in his body, his life, the warm, soft bed, pressed close against Harold's warmth, before he types,

_thank you daisy yes ill go_

A kiss emoji, and, _I'll pick you up at eight Saturday evening. Eat dinner first; I'm not sure what kind of refreshments will be available for the humans._

 _you and finch are the only people i know whod use a semicolon in a text message_ , he sends, dizzy with a mixture of gratitude and apprehension and relief, and she sends the laughing emoji.


	2. Chapter 2

He goes ahead and trades shifts with a co-worker so he's off Sunday, but he works Saturday, and when he gets home, makes minestrone for dinner. Daisy told him to eat, and soup will be easiest on the butterflies in his stomach. Soothing, warm, hearty. Homey.

Harold helps him chop the vegetables. Onions, potatoes, celery, green beans, zucchini, kale. He uses orzo pasta, easier to spoon up than rotini or farfalle, and black beans-- canned, it's a lot quicker that way-- and tomatoes he bought red and ripe and abundant at the farmer's market, chopped and simmered with basil and oregano and parsley and a little cayenne pepper, and blended and frozen in ice cube trays; he has ginger-garlic paste in there too, and pesto, and vegetable stock. He'll add a few glugs of red wine, undrinkable by Harold's standards but good enough to add depth to the soup's flavor.

While the onions and celery are softening in the olive oil, Harold leaves his bowl of geometrically precise cubes of diced potato on the table and comes up to John, puts arms around him, kisses him on the lips. John kisses back eagerly, almost melts to his knees, but Harold holds him firmly where he is.

He says, "I love you, John."

"I know," says John, happy, in his kitchen, the sizzle and scent of the onions and celery rising, Harold's arms around him. Home. He's here now; he'll be back here soon.

Harold pulls him back in, kisses him again, and again, delight on delight, until it's time to add the stock.

..................

At eight on the dot, the doorbell rings. The _doorbell,_ as if this really is the prom, and she's here to pick up her date. 

Harold stays in his office, like John asked him to, and John goes to the door, opens it. 

Daisy's back in her usual attire. Cream blouse, skirt and matching jacket-- dark green this time-- and her favorite black leather shoes, with the little heel. Hair neatly clipped back, at the nape of her neck. She steps inside, pulls the door closed behind her. Looks him up and down, not smiling.

He's just wearing khakis and a dark-blue button-down shirt. She didn't give him a dress code. Maybe he should have asked.

"No," she says, and does smile. "You look very nice. I was checking to see whether you're having second thoughts. It isn't too late, if you are."

He smiles, shakes his head no, holds out his hand to her.

"All right," she says, and takes it. "Close your eyes."

Oh, already?

He does.

"Good," she says. "Open them."

He does, and--

\--he's facing a door. Black wood, in a stone wall, with a silver knocker and a silver handle.

Oh, well, that was-- sudden. Usually she drives him places. In a car.

Daisy still has hold of his hand. She squeezes it gently.

"We had a little further to go tonight," she says. "Are you ready?"

He nods.

She opens the door, leads him through, into-- 

Golden light. A bright room, not dazzlingly but softly bright, and softly warm. 

There are people here, sitting and reclining and kneeling on bright, soft furniture, who look up and exclaim at the sight of him and Daisy. One of them, tall and beautiful, dark-skinned, black-haired, in a long, glittering green gown, rises and comes forward, holding out her hands.

"You came," she says to Daisy, smiling, her teeth very small and white and even, and bends down to kiss Daisy's cheek-- she's as tall as John, much taller than Daisy-- and then straightens back up, fixing him with green eyes that glitter like her dress. " _And_ you brought the legendary _John."_

He lowers his eyes, clinging tight to Daisy's hand, as the dark lady reaches to brush his cheek with slender, chilly fingers. 

"Lovely," she says to Daisy. "I do hope this means you're ready to stop being so-- parsimonious, with your good fortune."

"Good fortune had nothing to do with it," says Daisy primly. "Any of you could have been the one to take my John, if you'd had the wit to see his potential, and the patience and skill to coax it out. As for parsimony, I gave you a draught, didn't I?"

"Only enough to tantalize us," says a male voice, from where the rest of them are sitting. "Come and sit down. We thought you'd forsaken us completely, 'Daisy.'"

Hilariously, the speaker uses the same scare quotes on her name that Finch does.

Daisy leads him into their midst, sits down on a silky-looking, armless crimson chair, and he kneels down at her feet, facing her.

"Sit," Daisy says to him, gently, and he shifts, sits down with his back to her legs, looks around.

Right across from him is Kara, draped sumptuously in Poppy's lap, reclining against her chest, and looking like a million bucks.

Poppy's in all black, as if to provide a frame for Kara to shine against; Kara's in an elegant, shimmering gold silk dress, cut low in the bodice and high in the skirt, as if to show off her scars. In conjunction with the glamorous dress and Kara's air of ease, they mostly just look like decoration, like some slightly outré body mod. Same with Kara's cropped-off hair, adorned now with a thin, glittering gold band, looking chic and daring instead of institutional. 

He smiles at her. He's not sure if he's allowed to speak, or he'd tell her she looks fantastic. She smirks at him, as if she knows.

He might feel underdressed by comparison, if two of the other humans here weren't completely naked. 

Kara's the only one in a lap, although one, an older guy, is sitting on a silky brocaded couch (divan?) next to his owner. He's wearing a sport coat and trousers, and the one-like-Daisy, silver-haired and distinguished-looking, is wearing the same kind of clothes. It wouldn't be easy to tell which was the human, except for the body language, the owner leaning forward slightly, the human watching him intently. Even so, they could both be humans, if they were at a different party. They could be Harold and John. 

Of the two naked humans, one, a young woman, is lying down on the floor. Not prostrate, but curled up cozily on her side. As the lady who greeted Daisy at the door sits back down, the girl moves slightly to pillow her cheek on the lady's golden slipper.

The other naked one, a guy, younger than John, is staring down at the floor. Kneeling at the feet of a male thing-like-Daisy, a kind of stern-looking one in a dark suit and very shiny black shoes. The human looks like he's been crying.

Which-- well, it's not like Daisy's never reduced John to tears. She has. And it's not like that means she doesn't take good care of him; she does. 

But John doesn't like how the naked guy stares at the floor, how John can't catch his eye. He doesn't like how no part of the guy is touching any part of his owner, how he kneels so stiff and straight and still.

Maybe he's new.

"I'd ask if you care for refreshment," says the hostess, "but you're late, and Margot's already tired."

The girl at her feet curls a hand around her owner's ankle, closes her eyes.

They're late? He was ready when she told him to be.

She puts a hand on his hair, strokes it gently.

"What about John?" says the one in the sport coat. _"He_ doesn't look tired."

John lowers his eyes again, submissively. If she does share him around, it'll probably be less exhausting than it was at the dinner party, or even with Poppy. How hungry can any of them be? They all have their own humans, plus they just fed off Margot.

(Is that why they're late? Did she want the edges off all their appetites before they got to him? Or did she not want him to have to watch whatever they did to Margot? Margot seems OK now. Tired, but comfortable. Not visibly hurt.)

"Oh, yes," says the hostess, on a soft, languishing sigh. "Come now, sweet cousin. We won't exhaust him."

"Goodness, give him a moment," says Daisy, imperturbably. "We've hardly had time to sit down."

"You're too soft with him, 'Daisy,'" says the guy in the suit. "Give him to me for half an hour. I'll show you tastes you've never imagined."

John keeps his eyes down. 

It's probably true. There's plenty Daisy's never done to him. Although he doesn't think it's because she hasn't thought to. She knows what used to be done to him, what he can take. Even if she couldn't read his mind, she told him, almost first thing, when he was still burning and aching and trembling under her hand: _All your sessions are recorded, you know. I've watched them all._

Daisy says, calmly, "I could say the same of your Miles."

The naked guy at the feet of the shiny-shoed one tenses, but doesn't look up. 

"Oh, could you," says the guy in the suit. "I'd like to see that."

"Would you?" Daisy asks, in a soft, lightly interested tone, one that would terrify John if it were directed at him. "Shall I try?"

"By all means," says the guy with the shoes. "Such a miser as you are with your John-- who knows when we'll have another opportunity to put our respective methods to the test?"

He snaps his fingers, and, when the naked guy-- Miles, presumably-- looks up, points to the floor at Daisy's feet.

Miles scampers immediately, on hands and knees, to the spot indicated, and kneels at Daisy's feet, staring down at her shoes, shivering slightly. He's close enough for John to feel the heat coming off his body, but he still doesn't look at John.

Well, that-- that escalated quicker than John was entirely expecting. 

(As if this isn't the first time she and this guy have had this conversation. Is this why she brought him tonight? To win an argument?)

He waits, but she doesn't snap and point, or otherwise order John to the other one's feet. 

Maybe she's waiting for him to say yes or no. She said he could say no.

But if the other one wants to trade, if those are the terms, Daisy's presumably relatively gentle methods of eking nourishment out of Miles, for Miles' owner doing whatever he wants to John--

Of course. Of course, he'll do it. After all, whatever happens to John here will be a blip, an isolated episode in his otherwise pampered, sheltered life. If he can use a sliver of his own good fortune to buy this poor bastard a respite--

"Come," says the shiny-shoed one, and he does sound hungry. "Turnabout is fair play, 'Daisy.'"

"A moment, please," says Daisy. "I'd like to try something."

She reaches down to touch Miles' hair, which is blond, and curly. 

Miles doesn't quite whimper, but this close, John can hear the little noise he tries to swallow back, see his shoulders tighten and his skin go a shade paler. John wishes he could catch the guy's eye, give him some kind of reassurance, that it won't be as bad as he thinks, not with Daisy.

Daisy makes a soft sound, too, a wordless little coo, and reaches down further to set a finger at Miles' chin and tilt his face up. He stares up at her, his eyes-- a hazy gray-- wide.

"Miles," she says, "this is my John. Say hello."

Miles looks at John for the first time. He has almost no expression on his face. 

He says, in a quiet, husky voice, "Hello, John."

"Hi," says John.

Daisy says, "Now, Miles. If you do exactly as John tells you, and are very, very good and obedient for him, just as you are for your owner, no matter how difficult it is, you'll earn a favor."

Wait, _what?_

"Oh, now really," says the shiny-shoed guy, sounding like he's rolling his eyes. "We know your-- eccentricities, 'Daisy.' But let's not descend into absolute farce."

Daisy says, with a little touch of ice to her voice, "A _moment,_ please, dear cousin," and then, gently, "John."

He looks up, at her familiar face. So much less beautiful, more _human,_ than the others' here.

( _It seemed unthreatening. You don't like it?_ )

"You know what we like," she says, softly, to John. "Show him how you do it for me."

She wants John to--

\--to do things to this guy? To make him--?

It's not-- well, it's not _impossible,_ like the guy with the shoes seems to think. She doesn't-- she almost never has-- done anything to him a human couldn't. Not for that purpose, anyway, not to-- feed. 

(Is that one of her "eccentricities"?)

Miles is tense and taut as a piano's high-C string. Waiting. 

He'll do anything, of course. He wouldn't be here, otherwise. He loves someone that much. As much as John loves Harold.

"Are we witnessing John's vaunted docility?" asks the shiny-shoed guy, with heavy irony. 

Fuck, he's embarrassing her with his hesitation. But-- goddammit, if this is why she brought him here, a heads up would have been nice. She didn't have to _spring_ this on him, in front of her friends. Cousins. Whatever they are.

It's not exactly a helpful thought, adding insolence to insubordination, but before panic can do more than stir wings in him, a rush of gentle affection pours over and through him-- affection and something else. Not quite apology, but something that, if it were words, would be something like _I know, I know_ \-- as she says, not to him, "Wait."

The warmth of her mental touch steadies him. He's allowed to say no; even if she did bring him here specifically to win an argument with suit guy, she also specifically said that. She's not mad at him, for hesitating. 

He looks at Miles again, at the naked body of another human. Someone he knows nothing about, except that he's afraid. And--

As so often, he's thinking of Harold. The way-- 

\--Harold isn't comfortable in his own body. Not ever, John suspects, not completely, and certainly not since he was hurt so badly, and had to be put back together, and isn't the same. Harold can't trust his own body, moves stiffly, carefully, still gets little twinges sometimes, is pulled to a halt-- frustrated, furious, even though he tries to hide it, and might succeed if John were less focused on him-- by unexpected pain or weakness, surfacing out of nowhere.

But he does trust John's body. Lets himself be given over, lets John bear his weight, lift and hold him, gives orders to John and knows they'll be obeyed, more surely than he knows his own faltering body will obey him. John's begun to love his own body for that, for how well it serves Harold's purposes. Serves Harold.

He pats his own chest, and says, to Miles, "Come here."

Miles, immediately obedient, climbs into John's lap. 

John puts arms around him, pulls him in close, feeling the weight of him, the hard shivers running through his muscles. Feels how he's braced for suffering, at the hands of a stranger. For the person who matters.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," John tells him.

"You can," says Miles. "It doesn't matter."

It sends a little shock through John; it could be his own voice speaking, quiet and surprisingly steady. 

"Listen, you're good," he says, softly, to the man in his arms. "Don't worry. You got this, OK?" 

He's been rapidly cycling through everything Daisy's ever done to him, or made him do. And he thinks--

Simple, but hopefully effective. _You know what we like_.

"You're gonna stay quiet," he says, to Miles. "Not make a sound. No matter what I do. Can you do that?"

Miles nods, shivering again. John hopes his person loves him back.

He says, "But if you need me to stop--"

(For the first time, he kind of understands why Harold was so insistent about the safeword thing. Because he's not going to _hurt_ Miles, but--)

"Tap out," he says. "Like this." He taps twice, with his fingers, on Miles' bare arm. "But on me. Show me how you're gonna do it."

Miles taps John's upper arm, twice, quickly and lightly. Through his shirt.

"Twice like that, if you just need me to back off for a second," John says. "Three times if I do something you need me not to do at all. Do three now."

Miles does, tap-tap-tap on John's arm.

"Great," John says. "OK, here we go."


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing he does is kiss Miles' forehead. Testing the water. It could still be a misstep-- it's really not fair for Daisy to say _show him how you do it for me_ when she can read his _mind_ \-- but it's probably not going to be a catastrophic one. Probably.

Miles jumps, pulls back to look at John. John lets him. Focuses on him. It's not going to do any good to stay acutely aware of the audience. Or that it comprises their respective owners, a bunch of complete strangers, and John's ex-girlfriend/partner/attempted murderer.

(Kara will probably really enjoy watching this, actually. She used to--

 _Focus._ )

"Kissing OK?" he asks Miles. "Tap if you don't like that."

Miles studies him, doesn't tap.

John kisses him on the cheek, the way Daisy kissed John in the car, after asking him to this dance. Then on the other cheek.

"When I'm good," he says to Miles, "I mean, really good, sometimes Daisy kisses me on the mouth, like this."

He kisses Miles' lips, softly. Doesn't linger there.

He says, "I like it, because it means I've done well. She's happy with me. And that means I'm doing OK. For-- my person."

He tilts Miles' head, kisses his neck. Miles inhales sharply. But doesn't make a sound, doesn't tap.

"Good," John whispers into his ear, feels him shiver, and then kisses the ear before he says, voice pitched low, lips close against its opening, "You want to be good, right?"

Miles nods.

"Me, too," John says, soft as he can. "I want this to be-- OK-- for you. Please tap if it's not. Please?"

After a long moment, Miles nods again.

"Thank you," John breathes, then takes the warm, lightly fuzzed earlobe into his mouth. Sucks, nibbles lightly. Miles' breath pushes out of him, hard.

"There you go," John says. "You're doing great. Am I doing OK?"

Miles nods.

"Thank you," says John.

He's keeping a weather eye on Miles' cock. It's getting there.

(Sex is something Daisy's used a lot, with him. The first thing she ever made him do was lick her pussy, or a convincing simulation of a pussy, to a convincing simulation of orgasm. He's thought some about why. About the kinds of surrender, of offering, that feed her. And people like her. It doesn't have to be sex, or pain-- she doesn't need either, any more, to get what she needs from him-- but they both work as shortcuts, to the same place.)

He runs his hand down Miles' chest, to his belly, and back up. Takes a nipple between his fingers, pinches lightly. Miles tenses, but doesn't make a sound.

"There you go," John tells him. "See? You got this."

He rolls the nipple between his fingers, then leans down and takes it between his lips. Licks, sucks, bites very lightly, hearing Miles' ragged breathing. Lifts his head to check in.

"OK?" he asks.

Miles nods.

"This is what Daisy likes to do to me," John says. "Not this, exactly-- but she'll tell me what to do, say-- be quiet-- and then make it hard."

He brushes fingers lightly against Miles' erection, making Miles jump, and adds, smiling a bit, "I mean, difficult. But that too. _Intense sensation,_ she called it that one time. It can be pain. Or something like this. I'm not hurting you, am I?"

Miles shakes his head.

"Good," John says. "And you're doing so good, staying quiet. I mean, I knew you would. That's why they picked you. Yeah?"

Miles nods. Smiles a little.

"Me too," says John.

He runs his hand back down to Miles' cock. Wraps his hand around it. Rubs, lightly, a few times, then tightens his grip.

Miles' breathing is ragged. His eyes are big, fixed on John's face. He doesn't tap.

"OK," John says. "I'm gonna put you down on the floor for this next little bit."

Miles gulps air, shifts, taps John's arm. Twice.

"Oh," says John, flooded with unexpectedly intense gratitude. He's really going to have to figure out something to use his safeword for, if it'll give Harold this kind of relief. "OK. Two. Not yet? Don't put you down yet?"

Miles nods.

"OK, I won't," says John, and shifts Miles in his arms to lightly kiss his lips again. "Thanks. For letting me know."

He holds on, stroking, and kissing and licking and occasionally slightly biting everywhere he can reach, making Miles writhe a bit, breathe like he's been running, but never cry out, never make a voiced moan.

Finally he says, softly, "Tap for me, OK? Two if it's still not yet, three if you don't want me to put you down at all. I can work with that."

Miles does _one,_ very firm, tap.

"Oh, that's great," says John. "Ready now, yeah?"

Miles nods.

John lays him down, carefully, on his back, on the carpeted floor. The carpet's soft and thick, good for this, for kneeling or sitting or lying on.

He says, "Spread your legs."

Miles pulls his knees up, parts them, and John kneels between them.

"This is gonna be the really hard part," he says. "Remember, don't make a sound. Tap out if you need to."

Miles nods, already flushed and panting, waiting.

"Brace yourself," says John, smiling at him again. "I'm _really_ good at this."

He bends his head down.

( _Show him how you do it for me,_ Daisy said, but this is how he does it for Harold, how he brings himself to bear. His body, strong now, healthy and trustworthy; his skills, the ones that were beaten into him. The shape he was beaten into.

But.

_All that you are. The shape of you, my John. It's so beautiful._

The way Harold's hands touch his head, never gripping hard, never forcing, never letting go.)

He takes his time, draws it out. Keeps a hand cupped around Miles' balls, massaging lightly, and also paying attention to the tension there, making sure not to pull him too close to the brink. Paces himself. Miles is doing great; John can't hear him at all, though his hips jerk every so often, and no fingers tap on John's head or shoulder.

He pulls back, finally, his own jaw aching.

"Fantastic," he says. "Now come here."

Miles climbs into his lap again, curls into his arms almost eagerly this time. That's good to feel, he's not shaking any more the way he was, not braced in the same way. So John hasn't completely fucked this up, yet.

He kisses Miles again, on the temple, and says, "I'm gonna bring you off. Tap if that's a problem."

Miles grins a bit, doesn't tap.

"OK, good," says John. "I hate to leave a job half done, myself. But remember, you still don't make a sound."

Miles nods.

"Good," says John, and wraps his hand around Miles' cock again, and pulls.

Miles breathes hard. Bites his lips. Holds his breath, then sucks it in. Grabs for John, scrabbles, makes a fist in John's shirt.

"Yeah, hang on," says John, smiling at him, still pulling. "Hold on tight. But no noise. Just hold on to me. We got this."

Finally Miles makes it, arches and spills, hot over John's hand and onto his own naked thighs, without a sound, and then sobs voicelessly for breath, clinging to John.

"Good," says John, "perfect, but you're not quite done yet. Stay quiet."

He doesn't know if this is an all-of-them thing or just a Daisy thing, the preference for tidiness, but better safe than sorry.

He puts Miles down again, gently, kneels down between his knees again.

(Thinks fleetingly about disease-- but if that were a risk, Daisy would say something. She's always been careful with his physical health.)

He bends down, cleans Miles' thighs and softening cock, carefully, thoroughly, with his tongue. Licks his own hand clean, too.

Then he gathers Miles up again, feeling how aftershocks shudder lightly through Miles' body, and cradles him close, and looks up at Daisy, who's looking at the other one, Miles' owner. Who's looking at John.

John's-- shaking a little, all of a sudden. Not with fear, just--

Oh. He knew Miles was being fed off, but John's-- tired-- too. A double feature.

He'd like to curl against Daisy's legs again, put his head down, but he's still got hold of Miles, who's limp; he's got to be the strong one, at least a little longer.

Miles' owner says, watching John, "I don't suppose you'd be interested in leasing him out."

"No," says Daisy, her mark heating up, ever so slightly, on John's chest. "I don't suppose I would."

She adds, "But, really, would applying a little gentleness and praise yourself be so much more strenuous for you than what you're doing now?"

Miles' owner stands up, comes towards John, who holds still, thankful for the warmth of Daisy's mark on his breast. The shiny shoes stop on the floor, close by.

The-- guy-- reaches down, lifts Miles out of John's arms, as effortlessly as John would lift a child, and sets him on his feet. Miles bows his head deeply, as his owner holds him by the upper arms.

"Well," the owner says. "It's difficult to argue results, I suppose."

"If you're pleased, why don't you try praising him?" Daisy suggests. "You saw how he responded to John's praise."

Miles' owner says, "That was good, Miles. You did very well."

Miles nods, head still hung low, murmurs something that might be _thank you._

His owner leads him back to where they were sitting, sits down, as Daisy puts her hand on John, draws him close again, against her legs. He wraps his arms around them, leaning his cheek on her knee.

Miles, kneeling again at the shiny black shoes, looks up now at John, who musters his energy to smile at him, uncurls one hand from Daisy's legs to give him an air five.

 _It's difficult to argue results_. So, that was good. Daisy did win the argument, at least the half of it they put to the test-- she didn't let the other one test his theory about what he could wring out of John, for which he's grateful-- and hopefully in a way that's going to make things at least a little better for Miles, going forward.

He lifts his head a little more to look around, sees everyone-- human and nonhuman alike-- looking at him, and drops his eyes again quickly.

"I think that's enough excitement for us, for one evening," says Daisy, and John drops out of consciousness like a stone.

..........

He comes to lying down, in the dark, on his side, on something soft, his head in someone's lap.

"Shhhh," Daisy's voice says. "Stay still. Don't speak."

OK, well, those are easy orders to obey. He's tired anyway; he's content to lie still, his head pillowed on her lap. She's petting his head, so it's a safe bet she's happy with him.

It's nice, actually, lying here in the dark, resting, letting himself feel his exhaustion. It was nice of her to bring him somewhere to rest a little, before taking him home, so he won't just collapse on the floor in front of Finch.

After a little while, she says, "I'm sorry I didn't prepare you for that in advance. I thought it would be kinder to spare you the anticipation."

Maybe it was. He isn't sure whether he would have said yes, in advance. But with Miles right _there--_

"Exactly," she says. "I couldn't imagine that, confronted with another human in need, you wouldn't choose to do-- whatever you could. Your best. Which-- incidentally-- continues to exceed expectations."

Unexpectedly, he starts to cry. Not hard. Just-- welling, spilling tears.

Daisy says, stroking his hair, "Why are you crying, my John?"

No reason, really. He's just-- tired.

"Do you wish you hadn't come with me tonight?" Daisy asks.

No, he doesn't wish that. He did well. Got the job done. Helped Miles out, hopefully, at least a little.

"You did," says Daisy.

He's being ridiculous. There's nothing to fucking cry about. And now he'll be tearstained, when she takes him home, and Harold will think--

"What will he think?" Daisy asks, her voice soft as her touch. "That he has to be the strong one, for a little?"

Oh, that's not fair. It's bad enough she can hear every fractious thought that crosses his mind. Now she's going to quote him out of context, to act like Harold isn't-- like he doesn't--

"I'm not criticizing Mr. Finch's care of you," she says, her voice still soft, and warm with amusement. "Heaven forfend. But, John, why is it, I wonder, that you so dislike the idea of coming to him in need? I think it's easier for you to bear showing weakness even to me, than to him."

He lies still, thinking about that.

He doesn't have a choice with her, of course.

"Even the inevitable can be hard to bear," says Daisy.

Well, that's definitely true.

She says, thoughtfully, "It's a hard world, for your kind. A hard life, even for the strongest among you. So many different kinds of hunger. And not only for things that actually nourish you. It's a wonder any of you endure it for as long as you do."

John's quiet, tears still trickling, listening to her voice, her hand gentle on his hair. Combing through it, with her fingers. Or what feel just like fingers.

"I'm very fond of you, John," she says, in the dark. "I'm nourished by you, and entertained by you as well. I enjoy your company, and admire your many fine qualities. I'll protect you, and look after you, to the best of my ability, for the rest of your life. But I don't love you. That's not something we do. My kind."

Sure. He never thought she did. It's nice that she likes him, though; he likes her too, actually. Weird as that might seem.

"But Mr. Finch does," says Daisy. "He's-- fond of you, and fed by you, and happy with you. And he loves you. Brightly. Beautifully. Hard."

John catches his breath.

It's not that he didn't-- doesn't-- believe Finch, when he says--

But Daisy says it like it's not-- a matter of opinion. Like she can--

"It isn't seeing," she says. "But it isn't a matter of opinion, no. Or a guess, that he's waiting up for you." Her voice is almost dreamy. "He can't sleep. He doesn't expect you to tell him what happened tonight. He just wants you safely back home with him."

Oh, John should be home. Where is he? What time is it? How late has he kept Finch up, past his bedtime?

"All right," says Daisy, a smile in her voice. "I'll take you home."

And--

\--he's standing on his own doorstep, her arm around him, supporting him; he lolls against her for a moment, then steadies his feet under him. It's cool in the night air; he shivers.

Daisy goes up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Says, "Good night, John."

He says, "Thanks-- thank you, Daisy--"

She holds him for another moment, lets him go, presses his keys into his hand. As he fumbles to unlock the door, he loses track of her, she's gone, faded into the dark.

He makes his way to the lighted bedroom, and it's true, Harold's not asleep, he's waited up for John, in his pajamas, in the clean bed.

He says, "John?"

John smiles, says, "I'm OK."

He is. He's home. Where he belongs; where he's loved.

He kicks off his shoes, climbs into bed still in his rumpled clothes. Falls into the bed, into Harold's arms, and wraps around him, holds on.

"Say you love me," he says. Demands. Lets himself-- just a little-- cling.

Harold says, "I love you, John. Of course I do. What--"

"Say another poem," John interrupts. "I loved that one you said, before. The one about the burning city in the breast. Say poems to me, about how much you love me."

Harold says, "John, look at me."

John does, lets Harold check his pupils.

"See," he says. "Stone cold sober. Do I have to be on something, to want you to say me a love poem?"

Harold draws John down against him, against his breast. Holds him. Close, so close. John can hear his heart, beating a little fast.

He says, "I have found what you are like—"

John closes his eyes, hungry, to listen.

 

(["i have found what you are like," e. e. cummings](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1586/i-have-found-what-you-are-like/))


End file.
